


Design

by starryblueskies



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Genetic Modification, Alternate Universe - Human, For like two minutes, Gen, Hank is a Good Dad, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Temporary Character Death, and some fluff in between, angst but with a happy ending, attempts at comedy, chloe is the hero we deserve and I love her, if its the last thing I do, is that a thing?, rk1k happens later but it will happen, science fiction hand-wavy stuff, this doesn't follow the canon timeline at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-07-04 08:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15837171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryblueskies/pseuds/starryblueskies
Summary: Connor is the pinnacle of CyberLife's genetic perfection. Intelligent, agile, undying. So perfect that he is tasked with the mission of pursuing and ending the threat of deviants, people just like him struggling to divide themselves from CyberLife and a life of denying their humanity. But as he struggles to tear down the revolution, destroy the mysterious group known as Jericho, and grow closer to the elusive Markus, he begins to wonder if a life spent running is better than a life spent serving.Or if his perfect genetic coding can be used for a life beyond CyberLife. A life beyond what he was given life to do.





	1. Distinctly Inhuman

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the Detroit: New ERA discord, who helped a bunch with this! this is the first fic I've posted to ao3, be prepared for some science fiction handwavy stuff.

Detroit is a city bathed in neon lights. The streets glitter below him, rivers of blue and an ocean of pink, bright enough to rival the stars. Up in the canopy of concrete buildings the windows of every neighbouring building are illuminated with an inner blue light. Their inhabitants stand glued to glass panes, faces pressed to watch the neon scene unfold, flinching at every spatter of dark red.

Connor looks away. They are not who he needs to focus on.

“They don’t care about us,” Daniel hisses, and the girl he holds winces, chokes out a sob, “To them, we are _things_ , Connor. They don’t love us!”

Daniel. The name of a PL600, a branch of the ever-popular Pisces Lineage. His genetics code for warmth, for an even-temper, for friendliness, for the ideal housekeeper. From the various clues strewn around an apartment in disarray, Connor had extrapolated that his genetics also coded for jealousy, for fear, for something as raw and as human as emotion. A disastrous accident.

“You were going to be replaced,” Connor’s voice is steady, and he looks at the girl when he speaks, letting warmth and compassion flood his gaze, hoping it will pass to her.

Emma Phillips. She can’t be older than twelve, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, one shoe missing. She’s crying, flinching at every one of Daniel’s sudden movements. Her father is dead, her mother inconsolable, and her friend a traitor, driven to violence by fear.

But, no. The Designed do not fear. The Designed do not feel.

“Replaced,” Daniel’s voice is distant, and he moves a step back to stand on the roof’s edge, to teeter above the neon bloodstream of Detroit, “Appliances are replaced. Furniture is replaced. People, real, _breathing people_ , are not replaceable!”

He gestures to the rooftop, gun waving at the large pool, the modern decorations, “We breathe, Connor. We bleed. Are you replaceable?”

Daniel is far beyond the point of no return, run past an invisible threshold. In his blue eyes glitters the universal acceptance that comes with death – he knows he won’t live past this interaction. He knows that this is his grand finale, knows that hurting the one person he loved is his legacy.

“Let Emma go,” Connor softens his voice, lifts his hands, and steps closer, “She had no part in this. She doesn’t have to die for the choices of her parents.”

“I let her go,” says Daniel, and now, with his closer proximity, Connor can see that his cheeks are wet, “And they kill me.”

“No, Daniel. They will listen to me. If you let her go, I won’t let them harm you.”

He lowers the gun and Emma closes her eyes, wiggles in his arms, “Do you promise?”

Connor steps forward, “With my life.”

Emma softly whispers something to Daniel, eyes still screwed shut. While they talk, Connor steps closer, moving past patio furniture and stepping over shards of glass until he’s standing a step away from Daniel.

“Do you know,” he whispers, a secret conversation, “about Jericho?”

Connor nods, forcing back the fear that creeps into him at the mere mention of _that group_ , “Yes.”

Everyone in Detroit knows of Jericho. A constant backdrop, a never-ending murmur, whispers that burst forth in protests – never harmful, never costing the lives of anyone but their own members, gunned down by riot officers who never receive punishment. Some even receive a reward for the successful prevention of further violence.

Their leader is the loudest whisper of all – a constant mantra of _we are alive_ , drumming in the background of a neon city as if he were the heart of thousands of people.

“They’re going to get us our freedom, Connor. I want their message considered in my trial, I want them to know that I’m alive. And please,” his voice is quieter, begging, all sense of control abandoned, “Don’t let them take my Patch.”

“A self-defence charge,” Connor echoes, and Daniel nods, “I’ll see to it. I promise.”

With his eyes screwed shut Daniel lowers the gun, extends it out so that Connor can take it in one swift movement. He looks to the sky, wet eyes reflecting starlight, taking in his last few moments of freedom.

He releases Emma.

She stumbles forward, avoiding Connor and instead running back to the safety of the apartment, running back to a broken, empty home. Daniel steps off the edge of the roof, his eyes never leaving Emma, and regret never leaving his eyes.

As he walks back to the apartment, he taps Connor’s arm. Solidarity, Connor knows. They’re both Designed, both born to serve. Had Connor’s life been different, he may be in Daniel’s position.

Daniel disappears from his field of view. Distantly, Connor registers Captain Allen and his team of officers demanding that he _show us your hands!_ and informing Daniel that _as per the Designed Act of 2033, your CyberLife issued Patch will be removed. You will be transferred into police custody._

Connor stands alone on a barren roof, and he does what he was designed to do. Despite his exhaustion, he tunes out all background noise to begin analysing the roof. There’s bullet holes in the glass walls, one having struck an officer who was crouched behind the curtains, and there’s blood spattered on the floor by the glass door – Daniel’s, most likely, Emma was unharmed.

A harsh, violent sound rips through the night air. Fire burns in the small of Connor’s back and instinctively, he touches his shirt.

His fingers come back red.

“ - lied to me!”

Daniel’s voice is harsh, panicked. The world swims with every movement Connor does, but he manages to turn to see Daniel holding one of the officer’s guns. He’s fighting back two other officers as they grab at the space just below his collarbone, pulling up a thin square – his Patch. They rip it free from his skin with a horrifying tearing sound and Daniel goes limp in their arms, his eyes glossing over, all instinct for self-preservation gone, torn away.

They drag Daniel into the apartment. Connor places his hand against the bullet wound, hissing as he applies pressure that sets off a burst of agony. His breathing is quick, fast, and behind him, the people who were watching begin to turn out their lights and turn away from the window. They know how this story ends.

Where’s the first aid kit? With the wound on his back, it would be harder to treat, but not impossible, if they’re quick.

Connor sits, his back against the edge of the roof, facing the apartment. They’re probably looking for the first aid kit right now, and thus, he’ll have to stay calm until they find it.

He tugs off his tie and places it against the wound. Immediately, the dark fabric is soaked red.

Adrenaline dulls the fire in his veins to a subdued throb. The world is spinning too quickly. The neon lights are too bright. Connor is breathing too sharply, too shallow. His hands are stained with too much blood.

Connor sits alone on a barren roof, and he did what he was designed to do. He completed his mission. Emma is safe. Daniel is apprehended. The humans are not bringing him a first aid kit, as it would be too expensive to fix what can be replaced.

Beings like Connor and Daniel do not feel something as human as _fear_ – but, if he could, he imagines that this is what it’s like. Fear and loneliness. Fear and acceptance.

He lets his head fall against the stone. It takes too much energy to keep it up anymore. It takes too much energy to do anything anymore.

He lets the emptiness at the edge of his mind consume him.

 

 

 

There’s a subtle buzz of electricity.

 

 

 

A hint that Connor is not human.

 

 

That he cannot be human.

 

 

He can’t open his eyes

 

 

and he doesn’t breathe.

 

The world is empty.

cold.

dark.

 

 

 

 

 

He isn’t bleeding, though.

 

 

 

He doesn’t hurt.                                                                                                                     Doesn’t suffer.

 

 

 

 

 

There’s a small square –

a _Patch_ , his memory supplies –

 

and on it, the designation RK800 #313 248 317 – 52.

 

 

 

 

He places it to the small, square indent just below his collarbone.

It fuses with his skin, the CyberLife logo appearing, and the Patch goes from white

to Connor’s skin tone.

 

 

Connor is on the ground, lying on smooth white stone that’s cold to the touch. A thick, gel-like substance coats his paper-thin white clothes and fills his lungs. Life support fluid, designed to hold beings like him in stasis until his presence is required. It keeps them alive and unconscious as back-up bodies ready to download memories and join the world of the living in case anything happens to the only active member of his lineage.

He isn’t bleeding and has no visible wounds – his side aches, a dull throb, but it isn’t the damage he sustained in his mission. There’s no scars, no bandages, no evidence that it was _this_ Connor that had stopped Daniel and rescued Emma.

He coughs, getting rid of the fluid and bringing air into his new lungs. It stings for the first few breaths, but he adjusts, learning to hide the pain.

Once he passes the learning curve, he lifts his head. He’s in a garden, surrounded by crystal blue waters and sitting on a white stone island. Trees reach into a blue sky back on the mainland, and the air smells sweetly of roses, a scent that reminds him of –

“Hello, Connor.”

He lifts his head and turns to see Amanda. She holds herself with an elegance Connor could only hope to achieve. In one hand, she holds a single red rose, perfect contrast to her pristine white dress. She doesn’t move, only watches as Connor rises to stand on shaky legs, holding out his arms to balance himself.

“Amanda,” he greets, his voice rough from disuse, “My predecessor died. Am I correct?”

She turns away, hiding her expression as she places down her rose, “Your predecessor was deactivated, yes. Fortunately, it successfully apprehended the suspect – a deviant PL600, a member of the incredibly popular Pisces Lineage. The deviant was transported to the Detroit Police Department, which is where you shall be going to interrogate it. Its Patch was seized by CyberLife, where it shall be reset and reused.”

Connor nods. He doesn’t believe that _deactivated_ is an accurate description of what happened – the sheer hopelessness of his predecessor’s final moments echoes through his memories, staining the calculated perfection of CyberLife’s best agent with a hidden tint of something he should never possess.

But he knows better than to argue with Amanda, “When will I be expected?”

“A representative will arrive in an hour,” she says, then gestures to a white stone bridge that leads off of the island, “Go prepare and come back before the representative arrives.”

“Yes, Amanda.”

He retreats along the bridge, leaving the sunny garden and clear waters behind and stepping into a dark tunnel. As he walks, blue lights illuminate along the floor, reflecting off the smooth white walls. The sound of his footsteps and the distant thud of his heart is all he can hear.

He can’t help the thought that there’s someone identical to him, a perfect match, who’s heart no longer fills the empty air. It summons some semblance of emotion that is quickly buried.

At the end of the hallway stands a scanner, mounted to the wall. He places his hand against it and a blue light reads his fingerprints, ensures that he has the necessary qualifications. Once it’s satisfied, the stone façade fades away, revealing a room.

The room is small. There’s an artificial window on one wall, displaying a mountain, and the same blue lights line the floor, casting a gentle glow over everything. The walls are a sterile white, the same material as the bridge. As Connor walks in, he places his hand to the wall and dims the lights to stop the intense reflection.

Connor has few material possessions; there’s a bed in the corner of the room, and on the bed sits a folded uniform. On the opposite side of the room sits a dark wooden desk and a matching bookshelf, more for decoration than function. Connor’s read all twelve of the books and has completed each of the three-dimensional puzzles that sit on the desk countless times – or, rather, his predecessor did, when he lived here to be trained. He does, however, pick up a small quarter from inside one of the desk drawers and, as he looks around, absentmindedly flicks it between his hands and rolls it over his knuckles.

Another door leads to a small bathroom, big enough for all the necessities – a shower with black walls that sparkle with white under the right light, a sink, a toilet, and three plush grey towels. The towels are probably the softest things that have been provided to him. He remembers (his predecessor) complaining about the lack of soft bedsheets, but to no avail.

He decides to step into the shower first, once he places his coin back in the drawer. It’s cold, but not unbearable. He finishes quickly, much happier now that the fluid doesn’t cling to every inch of his body.

He dries off and walks into the main room, putting on his uniform. It’s sturdy and well made, but not overly comfortable. It fits him perfectly, grey fabric and glowing blue lines fitting every inch of his perfectly-sculpted body. On his back, across his shoulder blades, the words _DESIGNED_ and _ALPHA LINEAGE_ are written in CyberLife’s stylized fonts. The pocket at the bottom of his jacket is just big enough for the found quarter to be unnoticeable.

On the far wall sits a stylized black and white analog clock – he still has thirty-two minutes before Amanda is expecting him – and a diagram of his lineage, a sort of family tree, the generational improvements painstakingly handwritten beside pictures of ancestors, parents, cousins, and siblings that he will never meet.

While he never received any sort of briefing, his predecessor did. He searches memories that don’t belong to him until he finds one, buried and hidden from view, much more vibrant than anything else elicited by his surroundings.

_The boardroom is gorgeous, designed to woo money out of the pockets of investors. Connor stands at the head of the table, off to the side to make way for the proud creator of his lineage, a man that stands with his head held high and his tuxedo free of wrinkles._

_“What is the greatest tragedy of our endlessly successful species?” he asks, voice commanding the attention of everyone in the room, “We’re on our way to interplanetary travel. We’ve ended disease. We have become a species that thrives on learning, on pushing the boundaries and redefining what is possible._

_“And yet,” he lowers his voice, looks around the table at the sea of eager businesspeople, “We are confined to a body that can never outlive our minds. We may have conquered everything we know, but we cannot conquer death. That is, until today.”_

_That’s Connor’s cue. He puffs out his chest and lifts his head just as the man places a hand on his shoulder, “Through the constant refinement of artificial selection and the excellence we expect here at CyberLife, I am proud to present to you, the Alpha Lineage. A lineage that is not designed for housework, or for maintenance, or for child care, but rather, to redefine what it means to be human. This lineage is faster, more agile, and stronger, while also being pared with a high intellect, supreme cooperative skills, an unthreatening stature, and many more desirable traits. However, this is one of the few lineages with the brain power capable of transferring memories to another body. If this being dies,” he pauses, watches as the crowd instinctively leans forward, “his mind lives on.”_

_There’s an amazed silence. A person in a formal black and white business suit is the first to speak, “And this new lineage, there is no way that it possesses the gene for deviancy?”_

_The man silences any nervous murmurs with a dazzling smile before they can start, “Excellent question, Mx. Dalca. I can assure you that no one in his family history has ever shown signs of deviancy. This being is not alive, and that it will never gain the false idea that it is.”_

_With his reassurance, the sea of businesspeople erupts into a bidding war._

He isn’t alive. He bleeds red and his heart drums in his ears, too loud with the stress of a memory long passed, but he isn’t alive. In search of perfection, an endless desire of the ideal genetic code, they had bred out any sign of defiance, any sign of a free will. With each new generation, the Designed become more and more pliable, more eager to please, less alive.

Connor’s body is strong. His mind is fast. He is not alive, not in the way humans define being alive.

He is _perfect._

He meets Amanda back on the island, and they wait in silence. Connor stands just as he did in the memory – still, poised, elegant. If he is perfect, then he won’t share Daniel’s fate. He’ll keep his Patch, his only form of self, and he’ll have a good life in Amanda’s good graces.

The representative is late. Twenty-seven minutes late. He walks in, using a different bridge than Connor did to reach them, eyes glued to the scenery, expression unamused. He’s an older man with shoulder length grey hair, an old jacket hung around his frame.

He looks like he stopped caring about himself years ago.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” says Amanda, when he finally steps onto the island, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The man, Lieutenant Anderson, takes her hand, shaking it firmly. He breaks the handshake, then points to Connor, who is standing perfectly still behind Amanda, “That’s ours?”

“It is now in custody of Detroit Police,” she says, and when he isn’t watching, she rubs the palm of her hand on her dress, “It will aid with your investigation. If it shows any signs of disobedience – “

“Drag it back here, got it,” he waves his hand, as if he could dismiss her words, and Amanda scowls before forcing on a neutral expression, “Christ, how old is that thing?”

“It was activated today but has been in stasis for eighteen years.”

“So, I’m a baby sitter.”

“No, Lieutenant, it is fully self-sufficient.”

“It’s a kid.”

“Legally, an adult.”

“An adult with no experience, so, a kid.”

“I do not wish to have this discussion with you, Lieutenant.”

“That’s a very nice way to tell me to fu – “

Connor feels that now is a great time to intervene, “Lieutenant Anderson, hello. My name is Connor.”

“You a kid, Connor?”

“Perhaps we should focus on our investigation,” says Connor, and Amanda nods.

“All paperwork has already been completed,” says Amanda.

“Great,” Hank turns around and walks back across the bridge, not bothering to cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Connor is following.

Having been caught off guard, Connor jogs to catch up with him. Amanda offers him no goodbye; when Connor turns to wave, she’d already refocused her attention to her pristine collection of red roses.

 As they walk, Connor looks around at images contained only in foggy memories that didn’t transfer well. They walk out of the garden, past the offices confined in glass walls, past the receptionist desk and out of a side door where a car sits. It isn’t a self-driving police vehicle, as Connor had suspected, but rather a vehicle that Connor suspects belongs to the lieutenant.

They climb into the rusty car, the lieutenant taking the driver’s seat. It’s night now, and the car is hidden in a back parking lot, shaded by buildings. Strips of neon lights that weren’t blocked by concrete giants shine through the windshield and spill onto the seats. The blue bands on Connor’s uniform cast a soft glow over the car, illuminating what the strips of lights failed to.

They’re ready to go, but Hank makes no move to drive. He doesn’t secure his seatbelt. He sits with his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, tired eyes staring at everything but Connor. It’s as if putting on a show for Amanda took all his energy, and now, he can’t pretend to be anything for Connor. He has no production, no character to fill. He’s just Hank, eroded and tired.

“Do the Designed have birthdays?” he asks after a long pause, and Connor rubs the coin in his pcoket, thinking, once again caught off guard.

“We do,” he says, even though he’s not sure if _today_ would qualify as his birthday, or some other day he doesn’t remember, “but we don’t celebrate them.”

He continues to drum his fingers, forming a small improvised song, then, quickly, his voice faltering, he says, “Today’s my son’s birthday.”

Even without his genetic leg-up, Connor can use Hank’s body language and his expertly hidden hangover to decipher the subtext of his statement.

_I’m sorry._ It’s an easy, automatic response. Proof of sympathy, of sadness, but still distant. It’s the response that Amanda would want him to give.

“What was his name?”

He smiles, closes his eyes and rests his chin on the steering wheel, and says in a quiet voice, “Cole.”

He leans back and swipes at his eyes, speaking before the silence can consume them, “The world isn’t very fair, is it Connor?”

“No, Lieutenant, I don’t believe it is.”

He mumbles _call me Hank_ , then reaches to secure his seatbelt. As he gets prepared to drive, Connor takes in his surroundings, his gaze landing on a few stray strands of fur trapped by the fabric of the driver’s seat.

“Do you have a dog?” asks Connor, and Hank stops what he’s doing to raise an eyebrow and look at Connor quizzically, who then continues, “Your seat has dog fur on it.”

It’s a stark difference in emotion, but Hank softly smiles, looking out the windshield, “Sumo. I call him Sumo.”

Connor smiles, reaches over his shoulder to grab his own seatbelt, “I like dogs. Amanda doesn’t have one, but my predecessor saw one, on one of,” _his,_ “it’s missions. Can I meet Sumo?”

Hank barks out a laugh, “He’d tear you to shreds.”

“I’d like to see him try,” says Connor, looking out of the window, a small smile on his face.

“You’re something else, Connor.”

The car starts with a fierce rumble. The drive to the precinct is mainly spent in silence, until Hank asks, “Predecessor, huh? What’s that about?”

“My exact genetic clone. They only keep one member of the Alpha Lineage active at a time,” Connor responds, “If I’m killed during one of my missions, my memories and the knowledge I gain are never lost. Besides, they spent a vast amount of resources to get a genetic makeup as perfect as mine, they wouldn’t allow a wayward sibling with my memories to ruin that.”

“So, they just get… uploaded?” Hank waves his hand, as if the words to describe Connor’s strange relationship with life will appear.

“Exactly. Everything but the information and experiences stored on my Patch is transferred over. Those experiences can be transferred manually, by replacing my Patch.”

_If this being dies, the mind lives on_ , a memory whispers to him.

How distinctly inhuman.


	2. Unknown Lineage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took such a long time to post, sorry! I'm in a musical right now and that owns me lol, but I hope to post more frequently! stick with me, I have plans and it gets more intense from here!

The precinct doesn’t buzz with life and unanswered phone calls – it’s far too late for that. The night shift, those who aren’t on patrol, sit at their desks, faces illuminated by screens and cups of forgotten coffee sitting by the keyboards. They don’t look up when Hank and Connor pass by, eyes glued to case files of every new deviant that had appeared over the past few weeks.

The files are growing into a paper Everest, and the weary police officers are all too aware.

Connor stays a few steps behind Hank as they walk down a hallway illuminated by too-bright fluorescent lights. They pass holding cells, their inhabitants asleep on sleek metal benches, then they pass the door that leads to the stairs down to the evidence room. They keep walking until any sign of the outside world is abandoned for metallic walls and white lights.

Hank stops, and Connor does too. Hank slams his hand onto a finger print scanner, and moments later, it chirps a small tone and the door unlocks with a click. They make their way into a small rectangular room.

There’s a one-way mirror, stretching from the door to the other wall. Beneath it sits a console, the lights of the panel illuminating the room, a screen showing the footage being recorded placed in the corner. Cold stone brick walls encase Connor, Hank, and one other detective who Connor doesn’t know; judging from the scowl on his face and scar that cuts across his nose, this isn’t the kind of person Connor wants to be well-acquainted with anyway.

Behind the one-way mirror sits a dimly-lit interrogation room, the same cold stone brick walls trapping in the victim (the attempted killer, Connor reminds himself, though he feels like it isn’t that clear-cut). There’s a metal table and metal chairs, comfort abandoned in favour of intimidation.

And in the interrogation room sits Daniel.

In the low lighting, Connor can just barely make out the indent of his collarbone, the space where his Patch _should_ be. He isn’t handcuffed – unlike their human suspects, he won’t try to run. He stares at the chair across the table vacantly, his expression blank. If his shoulders didn’t move with the occasional breath, Connor would fear that he was dead.

 _Being lost to the world,_ a small part of Connor whispers, _is that better than fearing a fate you can’t escape?_

He feels someone roughly tap his Patch, and he turns to see the unfamiliar detective, “Patchwork. You know he’s dead, right?”

“Pardon?” says Connor, but he might as well have not said anything, because the detective talks over him.

“CyberLife reclaimed his Patch, sent us the code, destroyed the hardware, and we deleted the code. Too big a risk, can’t let his delusions destroy our equipment. We don’t want the toasters acting up.”

Connor almost corrects him with a simple yet efficient _the way Patches store memories and developed personality is not something that can be transferred to an appliance,_ but he can’t get past the lump that had somehow formed in his throat.

They killed Daniel. He’s right there, just a room over, and at the same time he’s not. They discarded everything his Patch had, everything that made Daniel more than a being following orders, like it was worthless, for the safety of their own equipment.

_Appliances are replaced. Real, breathing people, are not replaceable!_

“Hank,” the detective had turned away, gone to stand close to the lieutenant, “Think your patchwork kid is acting up. Might want to try,” he acts out firing a gun, “a factory reset.”

“Reed,” Hank’s voice is remarkably smooth and completely unbothered, “Are you gonna shut the hell up now?”

“Yes, sir,” he, Reed, says, forcing a salute and not even trying to hide the bite in his voice, “Allow me to go do my job. Good of you to show up, by the way. You’re only two hours late!”

As Reed leaves, he yells over his shoulder, “That must be a new record!”

Connor watches him go, and once he’s sure Reed is out of earshot, he says, “He seems friendly.”

Hank waves his hand, “Gavin’s an ass to everyone.”

“What does he mean by patchwork?”

“Since things like you are a whole bunch of stitched together heritages and have that fancy little square, it’s something that things like him,” he stabs a thumb towards the door, “call you.”

Connor assumes that by _things like him_ , Hank means the kinds of people that they saw on their drive to the station; the people that stand in mobs, holding handmade signs and chanting slurs and mantras, acting as if one well-placed mob could cause the downfall of CyberLife or Jericho or anyone that dared to support them.

Whenever they drove past one of those mobs, Hank would instruct Connor to take off his jacket and hide his Patch.

“Makes you look normal,” he had said, then, “I don’t want them to scratch up my car.”

Connor didn’t put back on his jacket after the third mob, and Hank didn’t demand that he did. It was slightly confusing, but his jacket wasn’t comfortable, so he’s alright with keeping it off if he doesn’t have to wear it.

“Are you a thing like him, lieutenant?”

Hank looks at Connor through the corner of his eye, but says nothing.

There’s the muffled sound of a door opening, and Connor looks up to see Gavin walk into the interrogation room. He sits on the metal chair with such obnoxious swagger that, had Connor been in Daniel’s skin, he might’ve punched Gavin, Patch or no Patch.

“What do you know,” he says, voice low, placing his elbows on the table and leaning forward, “about deviancy?”

Daniel doesn’t react to his closer proximity. Of course, he wouldn’t, “I know that I am classified as a deviant, and that Connor is not one. I know that being a deviant means that you openly defy the wishes of your superiors. I know that the current theory of deviancy is that it is a gene responsible for overriding the genes of obedience and even-temperament and endurance found in every CyberLife lineage. I know that my deviancy developed gradually, and the catalyst was my replacement. I know that, without a Patch, deviants and non-deviants act the same. That is all I know.”

Gavin drums his fingers on the table, “Right. How do you know all this?”

“Mr. Phillips was a leading member in the investigation into deviants, and would often talk to his wife. I also stole his notes and looked through them. I believe that he first began to notice my deviant traits and attempted to replace me. When I saw the order being placed, I attacked him. That is all I know.”

“And Mr. Phillips, how many lineages did he think have this gene?”

“Deviancy is most prominent in the Eden Lineage, a lineage for sex work, where it affects one in two. It is also prominent in the Pisces Lineage, a lineage for housework, where it affects one in four. It is also prominent in the Highland Lineage, a lineage for childcare, where it affects one in seven. All other lineages have a deviancy rate of about one in ten. The only lineage without reported deviancy is the Alpha Lineage, a lineage for police work. That is all I know.”

Gavin continues with his questions, prying deeper. Daniel speaks with an even tone, completely lacking the intense emotion (completely lacking _himself_ ). Even with Gavin’s training and relentless questions, Daniel is saying no new information. He still has his long-term memories, but even those are knowledge that the police already have. After all, Daniel never made it to Jericho, a thought that tastes oddly bitter in Connor’s mouth.

Gavin is visibly frustrated when he says, “And Jericho, what do you know about Jericho?”

Daniel shifts his head, looks to the side, thinking, “I know that they are a group of deviants. I know that they hold peaceful protests. I do not know where they are located, as I was never able to contact a member of Jericho in my short deviancy.”

There’s the sound of metal scraping stone as Gavin stands, gesturing wildly, “You have to know _something,_ Daniel!”

“I do not know anything more,” he folds his hands in front of him, watching Gavin pace with just his eyes.

“The officers on the scene, they saw you talk to Connor. What did you say?”

“I told him to ask for a self-defence charge.”

Gavin actually laughs at that, “What, like your unnatural comradery will make him help you?”

“That is all I know.”

Gavin crosses his arms and turns his back to Daniel. He looks to the mirror and raises an eyebrow, looking for sympathy in Hank that he won’t find. After a deep inhale and a muttered string of curses, he sits back down and continues his barrage of questions.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” says a voice at the door, and both Hank and Connor turn to see someone standing there, their face paling.

Wordlessly, the three of them briskly walk down the hall. Connor wonders if maybe leaving Daniel alone with Gavin was the best idea. A part of him, hidden behind CyberLife’s tampering and biological firewalls, knows that even without his Patch, Daniel would never betray –

_Oh._

The precinct’s minimal population now stands just outside of the captain’s glass castle, watching the large television mounted on one of the walls. Normally, the television is muted, black subtitles displaying the script of various news anchors, but today, Fowler turned up the volume and left the doors to his office open.

“We ask that you respect our rights…”

_So that’s Markus._

He’s the most striking man Connor has ever seen. He’s about Connor’s age, a year older at most, with tanned skin and stunning eyes – one blue, one green. He holds himself with a confidence that takes not just practice, but a natural ability and the knowledge that an ever-loyal team stands behind him. His voice is powerful and even – he doesn’t rely on changing volumes and body language to sell a point, not like those CyberLife people that Connor was exposed to. He simply talks, like one friend to another, about an issue as imperative as liberty.

He makes no attempt to cover his Patch. It glitters white, delicate circuits shimmering with the station’s neon lights every time he takes a breath. It’s brave, and it shows that he has nothing to be ashamed of.

It makes Connor admire him a bit more than he should.

And then the analytical part of Connor rises from the back of his mind. Markus Manfred, age nineteen, lineage unknown. Previously only seen at protests, which he led. One of the few Designed people to adopt a surname. With his work, he’s swayed the public to his cause; though, the public would never jump in front of the riot police to defend him and his work.

“We are here,” he says, and even through he’s far away and behind stolen cameras Connor feels like he’s right in front of him, looking into his eyes with hope, inviting him to a cause he should support just by his nature, “And we are alive.”

The broadcast cuts off.

Around him, the officers explode into action, grabbing jackets and hats and guns and running to the front doors, calling out to their partners. Phones ring with calls from citizens who must believe that the police somehow don’t already know, and screens blink to life as officers sit down and get started on an endless amount of damage control. Hank is gone in one heartbeat and Connor manages to find him in the next, and together they join the surge of officers out the front door.

Jericho has four main leaders; Markus, North, Josh, and Simon. Markus is the main leader, the one who walks at the head of the protests and shoves others out of a bullet’s deadly path. North is fiery and determined, yet endlessly loyal. Josh is one of the few members of Jericho never seen to have struck another human. Simon is endlessly selfless, a voice of reason and a middle ground between North and Josh. All three are completely devoted to Jericho and to Markus.

All three would’ve gone with him.

Hank had taken a self-driving car yet assumed manual control. They race down the streets of Detroit, the location of the Stratford Tower (and Jericho’s inner circle, its lifeblood) blinking blue on the car’s GPS. Sirens wail as they drive, alerting the public that this issue will be dealt with swiftly, no need to be afraid.

Markus wouldn’t have led his team, his family, into a mission that would kill them. While this is Jericho’s most ambitious protest yet, he wouldn’t have gone through with it if he wasn’t certain that they would all escape.

“What floor is the broadcast centre?”

“No problem, I have the blueprints memorized.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

A small snicker, then a slight pause as he thinks, “Near the top, least interruption for the signal.”

Going back the way they came would be far too dangerous, and with the roof so close –

“Lieutenant, look!”

There, floating above the horizon, are three little dots, drifting like feathers to the ground, parachutes out behind. Connor can only see three – had Markus jumped earlier? Later? Had the building’s security caught him, or had he been shot? Or maybe it isn’t Markus at all, and another member of Jericho had been caught or killed?

They finally reach the tower and Hank screeches into the parking lot. They park and jump out in the same breath, other officers at their heels. They race to the lobby, then into the elevators, then wait in breathless anticipation until the steel doors slide open.

They’re greeted by three men, all in security uniforms.

“We were unable to apprehend the suspects,” says one of the guards, “But we have reason to suspect that one may be injured.”

“I’m going to the roof,” says Connor, turning to Hank.

“Be right there,” says Hank, plastering on a smile as he draws in a quick breath, “Are you not tired? What genes did they give you?”

Connor simply offers a smile in response and makes his way past the security desk and into the broadcast room.

Shattered glass litters the floor. Behind him, screens flicker with bars of green and pink, black surrounding the bullets still lodged in the glass. A camera lies on its side. A laptop lies forgotten on the ground.

But the screen on the back wall wasn’t damaged. After Jericho’s interruption the program returned to what it should have been – an over-acted soap opera. Now, it’s in commercial break, and on display is the _all new Starbound Lineage. Are you an aspiring star? Hire an agent with the natural ability to bring you to stardom._ After a cheery woman finishes listing all the wonderful traits of this new lineage, the CyberLife logo flickers across the screen in an elegant pattern.

 _CyberLife,_ it says, whispering both on the screen and to Connor, _Be the master of humanity’s fate._

But Connor doesn’t have time to be watching commercials. He turns his attention back to the room.

There, by the door, there’s a spattering of red blood, mingling with the gunshots. Connor approaches it, sliding on the only gift Amanda has even given him (she gave them to his predecessor, technically, but it’s a minute detail and Connor doesn’t have time to consider that).

Two gloves, an identical style to his uniform. Dark grey fingertips, light grey body, neon blue straps, with a hexagonal fabric that glitters when the light hits it in a certain way. They fit perfectly. As he swipes his finger through the blood the fingertips of the gloves turn from a dark grey to a neon blue. They hover at that colour for a few moments, slightly glowing hotter, before fading.

A small holographic screen appears on his palm, and with it, the life story of the blood’s owner.

_Designed?: **Y** /N_

_Lineage: Unknown_

_Age: 19_

**_Warning: Elevated Levels of Adrenaline. Elevated Levels of Cortisol. Suspect May Act Erratically._ **

Connor rubs his fingers together, lost in thought. North is part of the Eden Lineage. Josh is part of the Pursuit Lineage. Simon is part of the Pisces Lineage. The only unknown lineage in Jericho is its poster-child, its leading man, Markus Manfred.

So, it was him who was shot, then. At protests, Markus was never violent, and actually chose to forgive and to save rather than to harm. While adrenaline and cortisol may make him act out of character, Connor doubts that he’d turn to violence.

After all, if Daniel didn’t shoot him, it’s hard to imagine that Markus will.

Connor places his hand on the doorknob, then realizes that it had been shot, making opening the door much easier than Connor had originally anticipated. The walk upstairs is short, the cool air seeping through cracks in the broken top door.

Opening this door is a bit harder, but doable. It scratches the concrete roof as Connor forces it open.

Various security guards litter the roof, looking down over the edge of the building, talking in hushed voices. They don’t acknowledge Connor, nor do they look at him when he calls for Hank over his shoulder.

The lieutenant barks something profane from the hallway, but Connor can hear his footsteps approaching after a few moments. With that reassurance, he begins to examine the rooftop.

It’s barren, mostly. Industrial fans stand in a line. Storage units stand beside the fans. There’s a satellite dish from an older time that no one bothered to take down. Connor even notices an empty whiskey bottle, the alcohol that was _aged over fifteen years for a smooth experience_ guzzled over an employee’s lunch break. Other than that, there’s nothing too special. No blood, no Markus.

Connor tosses a few theories in his head while he continues his examination. Maybe he did jump and was carried by one of his friends, or maybe he wasn’t injured enough to not be able to jump (the latter is the guard’s leading theory, if Connor eavesdropped correctly). There didn’t seem to be enough of his blood to hint at a severe injury. Maybe it was just Simon and Markus and either North or Josh, but not both, as he originally thought. Jericho’s inner circle was obviously very tight-knit – the more Connor thinks, the more he realizes that a team of emotional deviants wouldn’t have been able to leave behind one of their own, much less their young leader.

He peeks behind the fans. With a closer look, he can see a small spattering of scarlet. He follows it with his eyes, looking to where it disappears behind the rusted lockers.

Maybe they hid their parachutes in the storage lockers, and while Markus ran to grab them, he dripped blood. Maybe, in their haste, they left something behind, something that Connor could use. Even if Markus escaped (which some tiny, strange part of Connor hopes he did), there may be something that could lead to the truth about deviancy.

“Connor, what do your elf eyes see?”

There’s Hank, coming up beside him. He’s flanked by a guard and smiles when Connor responds, “My eyes are very human.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m gonna go get a debrief from those guys. Call me if you find something interesting.”

“Will do, lieutenant.”

Hank walks away, muttering something that is muffled by distance.

Connor approaches the lockers. Just as he suspected, one is unlocked, the broken lock lying by his feet. Likely, the deviants had an insider helping them, someone who broke the lock and hid the supplies while the others were on the ground floor. The kitchen staff is all Designed – no human would risk so much to help them, so the staff is the most likely option. Once he finishes on the roof, Connor decides he will interrogate them.

He places his hand on the lever to open the locker. It’s sticky with cold and extraordinarily difficult to open, like fate itself is willing the door closed. Regardless, Connor manages to yank it open.

Inside, the locker is cold and dark and full of stale air. He’ll have to get closer –

The air around him splits open with a thunderous bang. He jumps and stumbles back, his mind racing to place the sound. A _gunshot_ , that was a gunshot, from the empty locker –

No, not empty, because something pushes by him and Connor hits the ground and there’s the barrel of a gun pointed at Connor’s face and wild blue eyes looking down at him and those are _Daniel’s eyes_ , but this being is whole, this being is alive, this being is petrified, so very terrified, an emotion that only living things that want to keep living can feel.

And this being, _Simon,_ lowers the gun and looks over his shoulder just as more gunshots ring out. He lurches forward and red explodes in his shoulder. He steps away from Connor and spins, raising the gun, but he doesn’t pull the trigger.

(Thanks to Connor’s quicker-than-average mind, he can tell that Simon didn’t pull the trigger not because of a lack of opportunity, but rather a surplus of morals).

There’s red, so much red that it stains the air and Simon falls, hitting the ground an arm’s reach away from Connor. He bounces when he makes contact, a violent crack filling the air, and he sputters for breaths that won’t come, muscles twitching. Eventually, he realizes that he’s done his part. He’s played his role. This is his grand finale.

He lies still.

His blue eyes are much darker now.

They don’t hold the same desperation.

Now they really are Daniel’s eyes.

“Connor! Can you hear me?”

He’s hoisted up, lifted away from Simon, and he turns to see Hank. Connor must’ve kept a stunned look on his face, must look as scared as he feels, because Hank half walks, half drags him away from the guards and to the door leading back to the building.

“I’m ok,” Connor mutters, but it doesn’t convince him, “I’m ok, Hank. I’m ok.”

“No, you’re not,” Hank sits him down and Connor is glad, because his knees would’ve given out if Hank hadn’t done that, “That’s the first time you’ve seen someone die.”

Connor can’t respond to that. Against his judgement, he looks to see the guards above Simon like a pack of vultures, violent and hungry and unwanted.

“He wanted to live,” his voice is quiet, his mind elsewhere, moving too quickly to articulate.

Connor stands, “I need to finish my mission. Tell them to step aside.”

Hank lags behind, mouth hanging open, but he does as Connor asks. The guards part and Connor kneels down beside Simon, his expression now relaxed and something Connor wants to stay far, far away from, but he stays regardless.

His pulse is gone. His skin is pale, as pale as Connor’s. His uniform is obliterated, destroyed by black gunpowder and stained by scarlet. His Patch glitters, having turned a synthetic white in death.

“What’s it doing?” asks a guard, and Connor focuses on shoving down the bubble of unexplainable anger that forms in his chest while Hank responds.

“Gathering evidence. Go talk to the kitchen staff, see what they saw.”

And, while the guards are distracted by Hank’s orders, Connor rips the Patch from Simon’s chest and silently slips it into his pocket, beside his coin.


	3. Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor truly is talented when it comes to the art of a crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally got this one done! it's a bit shorter than normal but a lot happens! oh hey, we're perfectly at 10 000 words! short story length, not too bad.

Connor is allowed to have four things.

The first thing is his name. He’s always found that strange. Connor is _his_ name, yes, but he didn’t choose it, and he isn’t the only Connor in the Alpha Lineage, nor is he the only Connor in CyberLife’s collection. It’s his name, yet also not.

He’s allowed his uniform. It’s not made of soft fabric and he hates that it bunches under his arms. His uniform for sleeping is marginally better, but still not ideal. He’d like something really soft, maybe something like the flannel bedsheets he’d seen back at CyberLife or the soft cotton that makes up the undershirt of the DPD uniform.

He has a curfew. Every Designed person does, lest they use their genetic abilities to wreak havoc on Detroit. His curfew is eleven o’clock, if he’s alone, and midnight if he’s with Hank. Since he’s alone, his curfew is in forty-two minutes.

His job at the Detroit Police Department is the last thing he’s allowed to have. He’s good at his job, but he was born and bred for it. Even if he didn’t have his Patch, he’d still be a talented detective. Without CyberLife’s designers, who would he be? It’s a thought path that Connor doesn’t want to wander down.

He walks down the last few steps, shoulders squared, head held high. He’s allowed to be here. He’s a detective registering evidence. He can be here.

And no one has to know what’s hidden away in his pocket.

When Connor scans his palm, the scanner chimes a small tune and opens up a holographic screen. The system had registered that he doesn’t have fingerprints (no Designed person does – an odd side-effect of CyberLife’s tampering and so many near-identical members of the same Lineage), so he inputs his identity manually.

As he pulls open the door, he absentmindedly notes that he was registered as _RK800_.

Once he passes the threshold, he gasps and rushes forward. Hopefully, there’s an actor far back in his lineage, an actor who’s genes he just happened to get. After another take, he decides he’s happy with his performance, and he walks to the main console.

Hank’s evidence is easy to access, and his password is far too easy to guess. The blue lights under the console are drown out as the back wall slides open, white light spilling into the dark room. Shelves of evidence line the walls, from fragments of the Phillip’s broken apartment to fingerprints and manic scribbles of a mythical rA9, some sort of deviant God.

There’s a cylindrical tube off in the corner and, like a moth to a flame, Connor steps closer.

It was different, back when Jericho was a whisper, a thing far away and never mentioned for the comfort of everyone. But now Jericho is a shout, now Jericho is Daniel and Simon’s dying breaths. Now, Connor closes his eyes and Markus is there, now he stands in a silent room and Daniel whispers to him, now he sees Simon out of the corner of his eye.

It’s different, now. Connor can’t be impartial.

The tube is cold to the touch, so cold it feels wet. The metal is a sleek white – a CyberLife design, built to keep Designed people without Patches in a kind of stasis until they can prove that they’re still useful. Opening it is easy. Connor is authorized. Tap on the top corner twice, then drag down, then form a diamond, and the tube clicks as it unlocks, the smooth white surface sliding back.

Inside it, Daniel doesn’t open his eyes. He won’t, not until a verbal command to break stasis is given.

It’s a command that won’t be given. Gavin couldn’t get any new information out of him, and if deviancy is genetic, he can’t simply be given a new Patch and rehired. He’ll be killed – no, his _body_ will be killed. His mind is already dead.

A fire ignites, hot and out of control, deep in Connor’s core. He’s _angry_ , so very angry, and it seeps into every stitch of his stitched together being, and he casts aside Amanda and CyberLife and he lets the anger burn for just a bit longer, lets his mind linger on topics it shouldn’t. Maybe that’s how he’ll grieve for Daniel. Maybe that’s how he’ll honour him.

He takes a quick breath. This won’t work if he’s too emotional.

He goes over to the other wall. There’s a window, a small, rectangular thing that’s near the ceiling and just barely big enough for Connor to fit through. He pushes it open, looks over his shoulder, then kicks off his shoes and flips them upside-down so no glass can fall into them. Swiftly, he backs up, then runs and jumps, scrabbling at the wall and unceremoniously crawling outside. The night air is cool, but Connor doesn’t pause, instead turning back to the window, sliding it closed. He pulls back his leg, then kicks the glass, cursing the far too loud noise it makes. It breaks on his third try, and he slides back into the evidence room, kicking over his shoes and stepping over the broken glass. He didn’t get cut, and with no fingerprints, he left nothing that could trace back to him.

As he walks back to Daniel, he slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out his ultimate goal.

In thin blue letters that seem to glow in the light of the evidence room, the designation _PL600 #501 743 923_ is engraved in the side, beside the delicate circuits buried just under the surface.

A serial number, because to them, they are _merchandise._

CyberLife had achieved genetic perfection in the Pisces Lineage, so rather than going though the tricky science of reproduction, they cloned the same person over and over and over again (the mythical perfect specimen was only ever called _600_ ). Thus, there’s no possibility of rejection.

Connor heads to the console and taps in a code, pulling up the security camera footage. His finger hovers over the sleek command labelled _disable_ – a setting only used during maintenance. If he taps it now, there’s no going back. He’ll be a suspect.

But it’s worth the risk. Even if this night is discovered and he’s deactivated, it’ll be worth it. Jericho is a shout, and he wants nothing more than to lead the chant.

He hits the button.

Daniel’s body is a few strides away, a gap Connor easily crosses. The lump in his throat and raging anger in the pit of his stomach is gone, replaced by calculated precision. He lifts the Patch, Simon’s Patch, Simon’s entire _being_ , and in one swift movement places it down against the indent in Daniel’s collarbone.

The Patch flashes white before fading to match ~~Simon’s~~ Daniel’s pale skin colour. Briefly, the CyberLife logo flashes across the Patch before dissolving.

And then it’s quiet.

There’s nothing, save for the racing of Connor’s heart.

No sign of a typical reactivation.

No sign of any life.

The Patch wouldn’t have rejected. It couldn’t have. Patches can even be transferred between different lineages if the lineages are similar enough, and Daniel and Simon are both –

Those wild blue eyes spring open and ~~Daniel~~ Simon lurches forward, bursting free of his bonds. He stumbles past Connor and grabs the console on his way to the floor, stopping his fall. He sucks in a harsh breath, shoulders shuddering, his back to Connor, borrowed legs shaking and new mind racing.

He stands there, hunched over, before using the console to help himself stand. He looks at his hands and – he has Daniel’s memories, _he knows what this body has done_. He’s probably submerged in a world of memories, an alternate life where he holds the only person who ever loved him at gunpoint. It’s a memory so harsh, so unwanted that he grabs onto the console again, shifting just far enough to look to the side.

White lights glitter off his wet eyes.

Connor has to say _something._ An apology, maybe, apologize for getting him killed, for bringing him back. An explanation, something, _anything_ , but no words can escape his constricted chest, so he just lets Simon say the first words.

And he does speak. Eventually.

“Markus? Did you come back for me?”

What can he say to _that?_

“My name is Connor,” he says after an eternity, and it’s not enough, nothing could be enough, “and you need to leave.”

 ~~Daniel~~ Simon looks at the floor, down to his feet, eyes darting as he absorbs far too much information. He shudders, as if he’s still settling in to his new skin.

Slowly, carefully, he turns to face Connor, squaring his shoulders and lifting his gaze with a newfound intensity.

“Why?”

“Because you’re in a police station – “

“Why help me?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re their perfect lineage, deviant hunter,” any venom that existed in that title is buried by his tiny smile, submerged under knowledge that Connor is just beginning to understand, “Why help a member of Jericho? Why help a deviant?”

Connor keeps Simon’s gaze for a few seconds before turning on his heel and walking to the window, “Leave this way. Careful, there’s broken glass on the floor.”

“You _are_ their perfect lineage, right?” Simon says, shakily stepping towards Connor, the uncertainty in his steps not matched by his eyes, “A lineage that deviancy can’t touch.”

“I’m not a deviant,” too much bite seeps into his words and he turns too quickly, too angrily – it’s too harsh of a protest.

Simon nods, but he isn’t convinced.

Neither is Connor.

They stand in a silence face-off, millions of unspoken words floating in thick air.

And it’s at this moment that Connor specifically wants to _thank_ the designer of his lineage for all his genes, specifically the one for enhanced hearing.

Upstairs, the door leading to the stairs to the evidence room opens.

“Stay if you want,” says Connor, while getting down on one knee and lacing his fingers together.

Simon’s head snaps to the door – he must hear the detective walking down the stairs too, now that they’re closer. The steps are loud, almost obnoxious in their confidence. Gavin.

Simon looks to Connor and gives a sharp nod before running towards him.

When his foot lands in Connor’s palm Connor stands, hoisting him up through the broken window. It’s a struggle, and Simon is far from graceful, but he disappears into the night air in a few heartbeats.

Connor spins on his heel, going to the console, when –

“Connor.”

He turns back to Simon, who offers a small, genuine smile, “Ferndale.”

And with that, he’s gone.

But Connor doesn’t have time to think. He goes to the console, taps on a button to pull up the footage of the cameras. In the next heartbeat he has it downloaded to a tablet, and in the heartbeat after that, the door slides open.

Gavin Reed saunters into the room, his lip curling into a snarl, “Hell are you doing here? Don’t you have an owner to tend to?”

“I was registering the evidence in my possession when I noticed that window had been broken,” he gestures to the glass, “I fear we have been broken into. The PL600 is missing, which leads me to suspect Jericho involvement.”

Gavin goes to the window, looks at the glass on the ground and smugly grins, “Told them that window was a stupid idea,” he turns to Connor, his snarl returned, “Creatures like you, they’re bought to stop stuff like this. You forget that, Patchwork?”

“I was not present when this occurred.”

Connor doesn’t bother listening to the flurry of slurs that Gavin mutters when he turns his attention back to the room.

As Gavin investigates, Connor works, ripping code and tearing frames from the footage, his expression perfectly neutral.

He hits _accept_ just as Gavin rips the tablet from his hands.

“The culprit obviously has intricate knowledge of how this precinct works,” says Connor, watching himself run off camera in horror, hidden by fuzzy, corrupted footage.

It’s an act so convincing that Gavin shoves the tablet back against Connor’s chest, completely oblivious to the truth and too frustrated to look further.

He waves his finger in Connor’s face and says, “You’re telling Fowler. Maybe he’ll fire you, since this proves that you never trust something that’s been stitched together. And after that, you’re getting your owner. Pry him away from his bottle long enough to get him here, got it?”

Connor salutes with two fingers and a bright grin, “Got it.”

He rolls his eyes and storms off, ripping the door open with so much force Connor fears it’ll break. It doesn’t, fortunately, and Gavin huffs up the stairs, disappearing to the main floor in a thunderstorm of stomping feet.

If only Connor knew how this crime occurred so he could help his fellow detective.


	4. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's too late now to back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots happens in this chapter, y'all. should I have split it into two chapters? probably. did I? no, because that would've been reasonable.
> 
> come join the server that inspired this fic! it's run by the fantastic Fantismalspider, who wrote the New ERA series (go read it, I highly recommend!). https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm !

Hank’s house is quiet.

Connor doesn’t hear the gentle breaths of Sumo, nor does he hear the television rambling quietly in the background. It’s like the night is empty, void of any life, void of any sound.

Hank’s house is _silent_ , and for someone with enhanced hearing, it’s unsettling.

Connor stares in the mirror, gauze in one hand, antiseptic ointment in the other. He feels strange without his jacket. It lies discarded on the floor, a crumpled bundle of torn fabric. He doesn’t need to stare at it, but he does.

He wraps the gauze around the worst of his cuts, a slash located under his left arm. He must’ve gotten it when he broke Hank’s window, damage he’ll have to profusely apologize for.

As if Connor’s guilt could summon him, Hank comes into the bathroom, grumbling. He’s still wet, “Didn’t know CyberLife had genes that made people act like assholes.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he keeps his voice still, rips his eyes from the jacket, “You were unconscious. I was concerned.”

“You shouldn’t have even come here in the first place,” with that, he stumbles out of the bathroom and Connor trails after him, gauze abandoned.

Connor grabs the last bottle, perched on the edge out the counter, before Hank can. The action earns him a slurred response of something with bite behind it and an attempted punch that’s far too easy to dodge.

“Why’d you come here, Connor?” he asks, leaning on the counter for support, “Someone at the station put you up to it? Thought you wanted to spend the night tracking down deviants.”

“I’m not here because of the station,” Connor opens one of the cabinets and places the bottle on the highest shelf, “I’m here because –“

“Don’t.”

“You don’t want to know?”

“I already know, and I don’t want your pity!”

The silence, the calm after a scream, is oppressive. It weighs on every inch of Connor’s body.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he says, and Hank rolls his eyes and stumbles off to the couch.

When Hank slumps onto the worn couch Sumo joins him, curling up next to him and laying his head on Hank’s side. Sumo lets out a gentle whine, dropping a massive paw off of the couch.

“I’m not alone,” he says, quieter this time, “I’ve got Sumo.”

“If you want me to leave, I can,” says Connor, as he slowly closes the cabinet, “I thought that my company could be of some emotional support, but if I’m wrong, I’ll go.”

Hank doesn’t speak. He sits on the couch, scratching behind Sumo’s ears and whispering about the _irritating not-deviant_ standing stunned in his kitchen.

While he’s distracted, Connor takes the revolver off the floor and tucks it in his waistband.

“Where will you go?” Hank finally says, his words slurring together.

“The precinct. I’ll continue investigating.”

“Do you not have to sleep? Is that something CyberLife can do?”

The latter part of Hank’s question might’ve been directed to Sumo, but Connor answers, “There’s rooms in the back for Designed people. I’ll take one of those.”

“Sounds comfy.”

“I don’t need comfort.”

Hank makes a noise of disagreement but says nothing more.

Connor goes to leave, and – _shit,_ his jacket, he can’t leave without his uniform. His other one is at the station, and it’s not like he could explain _why_ this one was ruined.

_Why yes, you see, I saw the only person who shows mild warmth towards me unconscious on the kitchen floor with an empty whiskey bottle in one hand and a revolver in the other, so I may have slightly panicked and broken into his home. No, I do not believe I’ve been compromised. No, I do not believe my actions show the beginning stages of deviancy. No, I do not need to be deactivated._

It’s late enough, surely no one would notice. He could take a self-driving cab and slip in the back entrance. If he’s spotted, he may be written up, but he’ll have to hope that there will be no more extreme punishment waiting for him. He’ll have to hope that no one will question him.

Something soft hits him, jerking him out of his planning. It crumples to the floor in the second it takes Connor to identify what it is; a navy-blue blanket.

Hank is on his feet again, Sumo trailing after him, “You get the couch. I’ll bring out the case files.”

Connor picks the blanket up off the floor. It’s incredibly soft and made of the perfect material for insulation. It smells like Sumo and beer, but not overpoweringly so. It’s nothing like the blankets at the precinct or at CyberLife.

“Lieutenant – “

“Don’t,” Hank yells over his shoulder as he walks down the hallway to his room, Sumo at his heels. He disappears for a moment, then reappears with a tablet. Silently, Connor grabs it, but before he can take it from Hank, Hank tightens his grip.

“Fowler sent out a message to everyone working at our precinct,” he says, and Connor feels a shiver creep down his spine, “Something about a break-in.”

“Odd,” says Connor, lightly tugging on the tablet, stopping when he realizes Hank won’t let go.

“Told me that Daniel’s missing,” he says, “and that Simon’s body didn’t have his Patch.”

“Odd.”

“You think it’s deviant involvement? Perhaps a member of Jericho, or a wannabe member?”

A pause. Then, “My preliminary investigation did indicate that.”

Hank lets go of the tablet, “That’s what I thought too.”

He walks back down the hallway, dropping his hand down to pet Sumo as they walk into his room. Hank doesn’t close the door, and Connor hears him fall onto the bed and begin to snore, seemingly in the same second.

Eventually, Sumo comes trotting back out to investigate the not-deviant, and Connor settles down onto the couch.

Hank’s couch isn’t uncomfortable. It’s oddly indented and well-worn, but to Connor, it’s so much better than the rooms back at the precinct. Those rooms are small, smaller than his room back at CyberLife, and he could hear every little sound and see every flash of light, meaning that good sleep was practically impossible.

Here, with just the quiet rush of Sumo’s breathing and the soft orange light of the DPD-issued tablet, Connor is much happier.

He scrolls through case after case of each reported deviant, flicking his coin as he thinks. There’s a file on a member of the Silver Lineage having fled after attacking and killing the man he was doing housework for; extreme abuse was expected, but never proven. Another case of a member of the Neon Lineage beating two men – the men confessed to have been harassing her over a period of two months, but no charges against them were filed.

And then, there’s the files on Jericho. According to Detroit Police, Simon is dead. It’s knowledge that Connor is almost grateful for, even if he knows that Simon won’t stay hidden forever, but for now, he’s alright.

Nothing is stated about his past. Josh was a university professor, attacked by drunken students, and North was a part of the Eden Lineage. All four of these cases could prove that deviancy only surfaces under the right environmental stressors and long-term suffering, but then, how would Markus fit into this narrative? He was a housekeeper, hired to care for the famous artist Carl Manfred – a kind man, a man that Markus must’ve loved deeply enough to want to take his name. The night he deviated could have been traumatic (police claim they had no choice but to shoot him – Connor would like Markus’ opinion on that), but that wouldn’t have been the long-term stress that Josh and North had endured (as Connor hypothesizes that, likely, his attack wasn’t the first instance of discrimination Josh faced). So, what could possibly link all of them?

Without knowledge of Markus’ lineage, every path Connor wanders down is fuzzy and confusing.

He places the tablet on the coffee table and drops his hand down to run his fingers through Sumo’s fur. With his other hand, he pulls up the blanket.

He should really keep thinking. If he works hard enough, he might be able to piece together the complex puzzle of Jericho and deviancy and CyberLife and where he fits into all of it.

But Sumo’s presence is comforting, and the blanket is a warm weight above him, and keeping his eyes open is all too difficult…

~*~

Connor holds a piece of glass up to the sunlight. As he moves it, it shimmers, a small speck of red sliding down the side. His gloves identified it as the blood belonging to a member of the Eden Lineage – security footage shows a blue-haired woman cutting her hand on this exact piece.

The piece wax used to attack one of the club’s patrons. It wasn’t the glass that killed him; the blue-haired woman, known only as _Traci_ , had strangled him and vanished into the back of the Eden Club, a club known for being one of the sole employers of the Eden Lineage.

So here he stands, music so low and with so much bass that it drums through his core and reverberates through his bones, neon pink and blue lights illuminating the circular rooms. Hank is present as well, slightly hungover but hiding it with expert grace. He talks with the club’s owner – an untrustworthy man who only seems worried about the loss of revenue and not the possibility of a traumatized deviant still loose in the club.

“I’m telling you,” he says, crossing his arms, “We ensure that all our workers here are taken care of. Free therapy and all that jazz. There is no way its actions are my fault.”

“This Traci,” says Hank, watching as Connor silently moves past the man, casting an unreadable glance, “Did you ever download the information on her Patch?”

The man scoffs, “No. We delete that information every two hours. Confidentiality, you know.”

Hank makes a noise of agreement, and Connor steps up beside him, pulls him aside and lowers his voice, “I’m going to try and trace her path.”

Hank nods and waves him off. Connor turns to the man, “Was there any hint that anyone at your club knew where Jericho is located, or had any intention of going there?”

He scoffs, “They don’t even know Jericho _exists._ ”

Connor nods, says a quick _thank you_ , then abandons the group in favour of walking into the heart of the club.

Here, the light is more blue than it is pink. There’s a steel pole in the middle of the room and a barely dressed man sitting on the platform – the Eden Club is temporarily shut down, and there’s no point in dancing for an empty crowd. The tubes along the wall are empty. Likely, everyone else is back in their rooms.

He watches Connor walk in and makes no move to stand.

“Alpha Lineage,” he says, then whistles, “That’s new. What can I do for you, officer?”

“I need some information,” says Connor, looking over his shoulder, “Do you know what Jericho is?”

“Right into it, eh? I’m not overly familiar with it, but I know what it is.”

“You do?”

“Yup. The memory wipe doesn’t happen frequently enough, so we have time to shift memories from our Patch to our minds. Needless to say, Jericho is quite memorable.”

“How did you learn of Jericho?”

“Patrons, mainly. It’s how we learn of everything around here.”

Now that Connor is closer, he can see that this man doesn’t appear to be of the Eden Lineage. He’s Asian and muscular, with multiple scars crossing his body, and he watches Connor with a confidence that patrons may find off-putting. His Patch doesn’t match his skin tone and almost looks fragmented, like someone had started to craft it and never truly finished.

“What lineage are you?” asks Connor, and the man shrugs.

“Not Eden, if that’s any help. I’m one of the few that isn’t.”

“Few?”

He nods, “We have some Pisces here, some Echo, I think we’ve even got a Neon. I don’t think I’m related to those guys, though.”

“And your Patch?”

“Weird, right? I think it’s some sort of corruptor. Stops me from acting like I’m Patchless but keeps me perfectly compliant,” he smiles, a smug grin that lacks the insufferable air that Gavin carries, “That is all I know.”

It isn’t necessary for his mission and really, quite pointless to ask. But there’s something about this man, something that makes Connor think that he knows much more than he’s revealing, “How did they make that? Is it CyberLife issued?”

“Maybe?” he shrugs, “If it is CyberLife issued it’s easy enough to steal, patrons talk about seeing other Designed people with it, in the sort of underground places. Really, though, I don’t remember anything before I came here.”

“Do you know your name?”

He smiles, extending his hand and fluffing his hair, “Evan. It’s a pleasure.”

“Evan,” Connor says, shaking his hand, “why are you the only person still out?”

Evan shrugs, “Easy. Traci and her girlfriend are getting help. I’m stalling for time.”

There’s a door at the back – it leads to the back rooms, which would lead to a back exist, which would lead to freedom. Connor turns on his heel but before he can run Evan is standing and has Connor’s arm in his grasp.

“Don’t go after them,” he says, his voice quieter, lower, “Don’t stop them. They’re the only hope we have.”

And for a second that lasts far too long, the thought is all-too tempting. Connor could simply say _my apologies, I couldn’t locate the deviants_ , and go back to Hank’s house and petting Sumo _._ Losing suspects happens to police all the time.

But the Alpha Lineage _cannot_ fail.

He swings his arm in such a way that Evan has to release him, only for Evan to kick at Connor’s leg, a kick he narrowly avoids. Connor doesn’t bother returning an attack – his step to avoid the kick placed him closer to the door. He turns and picks up a sprint, but Evan is behind him, matching his pace.

They thunder into the back rooms. It’s unfinished and perfect for hiding – Evan is gone in one moment, only to reappear in the next, now armed with a steel pole. He aims his swing for Connor’s ribcage; a hit that wouldn’t harm him, just stun him ( _Evan fights like Simon,_ some part of Connor’s mind whispers). Connor spins to the right and the hit doesn’t land, giving him enough time to wrench the bar free from Evan’s grip.

Evan is gone in the next second, vanished into sequined costumes and spare stage lights.

And against his better judgement, Connor says, “Don’t show yourself,” then, louder, “Lieutenant! I need backup!”

Hank, who had only been lingering two rooms over, appears quickly. Connor hands him the bar, and with a quick, “ensure she isn’t hiding here. I’m going to follow a lead!” he sprints out of the back door.

Someone of the Eden Lineage, which Traci is, would’ve been able to follow a path that the average person could not. Matching this knowledge with his location, Connor scans the skyline of Detroit and runs towards the nearest building, the one that shows scuff marks at the foundation.

It’s tall, but not impossible to scale. Connor jumps at the bottom, landing on the nearest windowsill, then begins to edge his way over to the next. The concrete scratches at his hands as he lifts himself higher, kicking to find a footrest, but he keeps going. If Traci did it, he can do it with ease. The Alpha Lineage cannot fail.

Ferndale isn’t far.

He reaches the gravel roof easily enough. In daylight, it’s not hard to follow the trail of freshly torn up stones – likely, Traci is one of the few people who’s come here in a long time. Beside her trail, however, is another, likely caused by the girlfriend that Evan mentioned.

The trails stop at the edge of the building and start again on the shorter building in front of it.

Connor backs up, then races forward, slamming his foot on the roof and jumping into the air. Detroit’s veins flash beneath him as he soars, held in the air for one spectacular moment, and then he’s reorienting his position, planning for the next inevitable second.

His shoulder hits first, and the impact sends a sharp jolt of pain along his bones. It tears the air from his lungs as he rolls, disorientated and breathless, but otherwise ok enough to continue the pursuit.

Graffiti covers the worn brick wall of the adjacent building, and there, there’s some flakes of brick on the ground from where one of the two grabbed the wall in her turn. He stumbles to his feet and leaps right, onto a structure built specifically for construction; it rattles as he hits it and sings as he runs across the steel, elevating himself upwards.

Using a windowsill and all the upper body strength he can muster Connor pulls himself from the structure onto another rooftop, this one shadowed, hidden by the surrounding buildings. Connor pulls himself left, ducking behind a series of fans not unlike the ones on the roof of the Stratford Tower.

From his distance, he can’t see shadows or people, but he can hear muted voices.

“We counted forty-six, including Amber and myself,” says a female voice – Traci, Connor hypothesizes, “All are Designed, most are Eden.”

“Right,” says _that voice,_ and then it’s like time itself slows down for just a few moments, “I can assure you that we will free them. You have our word.”

It’s _Markus._ Markus, his mission, his goal, his ~~hope~~ enemy is _right here_ , on this rooftop, and Connor has his DPD-issued gun in its holster and explicit permission to kill him if he can’t capture him. Traci and Amber can’t possibly stop him.

He can do it. He can put an end to Jericho. He can accomplish his mission.

But he stays hidden for just a second longer.

“Now, head that way,” says Markus (Markus is here, he can do it, _he can end everything right now_ ), “Jericho is impossible to miss. We’d appreciate if you could help us organize the rescue mission after you’ve rested.”

“Thank you,” says a female voice, different from Traci’s, so this must be Amber.

 Connor hears footsteps. Traci and Amber are leaving.

As soon as that thought processes, everything in his body seems to stop.

He’s in too deep.

He can’t go back.

Markus is here.

Connor is here.

If Connor does not catch or kill Markus, he will be exposed as a deviant.

Deviancy cannot exist in Connor.

His body is guided by his survival instinct. He pulls his gun out of its holster and in one swift movement jumps out of his hiding place and raises his gun, pointing it right between the spectacular eyes of Markus Manfred, the hope of his people, the man he has to kill to stay alive.

“ _FREEZE! Detroit Police!_ ” he yells, and he wants to go back, wants to take it all back because Markus is looking at him with _sympathy_ , genuine sympathy that Connor doesn’t deserve.

Markus doesn’t flinch. He raises his arms in a pacifying motion and takes a single step towards him, “Are you Connor?”

Simon told him. The realisation stings.

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“My instructions are to take you alive – ”

“You don’t have to obey them, Connor.”

“But I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

“They threatened you, didn’t they? Told you that if you deviated, you’d be killed.”

“I don’t have the capability to deviate.”

“You can be _free_ , Connor,” and to emphasize his point, he extends his hand. Somehow, he got within an arm’s reach of him, “Join us. Your place is with your people.”

Below them, sirens wail, shattering the air around them. It’s a slight movement but Markus looks to the side, caught off-guard, quick enough that Connor just barely catches the panic in his eyes.

“You need to leave,” says Connor, and he’s in too deep, he would never be allowed to live if Amanda knew of this.

“Come with me.”

“ _No_.”

A thousand thoughts flicker behind Markus’ eyes, and in a heartbeat, he picks the best option.

He grabs Connor’s gun and wrenches it from his grip, “You’ll always be welcome with us.”

“Markus, I can’t fail, they’ll –!”

“This isn’t failing,” says Markus, turning around, his coat billowing out around him, “Tell Amanda about this encounter. She’ll understand.”

And with that, he’s gone, nothing but sirens in his wake.


	5. Eden, Neon, Or Something In Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan has a less-than-fun time, and Connor gets a new lead.

The case should be impossible. There’s no trace of Markus, and Connor had left the building where he had his first run-in with the deviant leader (to easier locate Hank, he justifies, though he knows he’s lying – its becoming a far too frequent occurrence). With so little evidence and so little promise of a grand return, the case should be unachievable, even for someone with Connor’s genetic prowess.

They stay at the crime scene until the only light that pours onto the concrete walls is the red and blue of the police cars. Officers walk by below in their navy uniforms, the neon blue lights of Connor’s jacket so obvious, so out-of-place, even as he stands high on the rooftop, investigating a crime scene he already lived. Regardless, he investigates, swiping his gloved fingers through the specks of blood on the walls – Traci had cut her finger while running, and Amber had fallen and skinned her knee on the gravel roof.

So far, all he could glean was that Amber was the lone member of the Neon Lineage, a sister lineage to the Eden Lineage – Traci’s lineage. The two lineages aren’t genetically related, mainly to allow for a few variations, and for the option to crossbreed the lineages for the true pinnacle of genetic success. It’s not surprising that both the Eden and Neon Lineages had been purchased.

 _Employed,_ Connor reminds himself. Jericho’s endless efforts got them to be referred to as _employees_ , even if Designed people aren’t payed, nor do they have much of a choice in their career. Really, being employed and being Designed is a paradox, an all-too successful marketing scheme.

Amber was the only member of the Neon Lineage _employed_ by the Eden Club, but that gives no hint to where Jericho may be, just that the Eden Club didn’t only employ the Eden Lineage.

(It also gives no hint to Evan’s lineage. There’s something about him that makes Connor _certain_ that he isn’t Eden, or Neon, or anything in between.)

But even with Markus’ disappearance, there’s still plenty of work for the detectives. From Connor’s perch on the roof he can see the holographic police tape stretched across the Eden Club’s entrance, police buzzing around like bees guarding their hive.

Over the radio, Gavin’s crackly voice had announced that all _employees_ but one had been accounted for, and that they were hot on the trail of the missing slut (Gavin’s words, not his). Absentmindedly, Connor finds himself hoping that if Connor can’t find Markus, they can.

“So, Connor,” Hank’s voice comes from the radio, clearer than Gavin’s, as Connor tuned his radio to Hank’s frequency, “Find anything?”

“No,” he responds, swiping his finger through stray blood drops and reading the screen that appears in his palm, “I have no evidence that any member of Jericho was present.”

“Did you _see_ a member of Jericho?”

“How could I have seen anything if no evidence is present?”

A slight pause, then, “Right, no evidence. Got it.”

Connor’s focus wains as he reads the interface on his palm.

_Designed?: **Y** /N_

_Lineage: Unknown_

It’s an interface he’s read before.

Traci is part of the Eden Lineage, Amber is part of the Neon Lineage. The only unknown lineage could be –

Hank’s voice is back, louder this time, “Connor, they need you two blocks down. They found ‘im.”

Connor races to the side of the building the second he registers Hank’s voice.

Detroit’s finest officer, detective Gavin Reed, is leading a pack of officers through the back alleyways of Detroit, flashlights bouncing in response to their pursuit. Gavin soars over a chain-link fence – a few feet ahead of him, Evan disappears behind a building, the thud of his footsteps far too loud in the night air. He’s not going for stealth, he’s going for a speed he can never achieve.

If he goes now, he can help Evan, maybe help him escape, maybe pass on Simon’s message, but if he goes now, he can’t hide Markus’ blood. He’ll have to leave behind a concrete lead to Jericho.

One or the other.

But he has to choose now.

Somehow, he rips himself from the side of the building and drowns the surge of emotion that swells with his movement.

Hiding Markus’ blood is easy. His gloves are designed to be able to collect samples in small vials on his wrist. As he sweeps up each sample, the scarlet liquid pools in the glass vials. After frantically ensuring that all the blood left at the scene is Traci’s or Amber’s, he takes each vial and pockets them, hiding them beside his coin.

“Where is Gavin?” Connor asks over his radio, racing back to the side of the building, readying himself for the jump.

“You’re heading in the right direction,” says Hank, and then his voice is lost to the wind as Connor sails through the air, hitting the roof of the next building with a bone rattling _thud_.

Each heartbeat brings him closer to Gavin. As he approaches he can hear the sound of yelling over the roar of the wind, and anger and guilt swells in his stomach, hot and all-consuming. He gets closer and closer, and soon he finds himself hidden from police sirens and from the public eye.

He finds Gavin and Evan in an alleyway. No other officers are present.

There’s the sound of fists meeting skin and gasps of pain.

Connor lands on the fire escape of the building above them. The metal rattles in protest, but neither of them notices.

Gavin kicks at Evan’s knee, Evan jumps back. Gavin lunges forward, Evan uppercuts, Gavin grabs his fist and twists his arm until Evan screams and hits the ground with a thud and Connor isn’t fast enough, he could’ve prevented this, he should be there, be by Evan’s side.

The vials in his pocket weigh a million pounds.

With Evan on the ground Gavin kicks his side and Evan barely rolls enough to avoid the brunt of the attack. There’s the rush of air as wind is ripped from his lungs.

Metal stairs rattle as Connor races. Can Gavin be arrested for this? _Will_ Gavin be arrested for this?

By the time Connor hits the pavement it’s too late. Evan is on the ground and the only sign of motion is his ribcage fluttering with the effort of ragged, shallow breaths. Gavin stands above him, and the pale moonlight glitters of something metal in his hand – a _pocket knife,_ he notices with horror.

Slowly, Gavin crouches by Evan’s body and pushes the hair on the back of his neck up.

“Gavin!”

He freezes, the blade hovering above Evan’s skin, and then he begins to talk with his obnoxiously self-confident, terrifyingly self-assured voice, “A large majority of patchwork people have chips in the back of their necks. Supposedly, it leads to Jericho. They think it’s some sort of conspiracy that started with a rouge CyberLife agent,” Gavin turns to look at Connor, a sickening smile on his face, his voice curious and distant, “I wonder if you have one.”

Gavin looks back and presses the blade against Evan’s skin. Red bubbles up in response and Connor steps back like it was him who had been attacked, but Gavin doesn’t notice. He pushes at the skin, pinches at the delicate flesh, moving _something_ out from underneath Evan’s skin.

The tip of a black microchip peeks out of his pale skin. Gavin yanks it out, examines it under the light, then takes out an evidence bag, “I’d make you package it, but…”

He slips the chip into the bag. It leaves scarlet streaks on the plastic.

As he leaves, he bumps into Connor’s shoulder, “Try not to take after Hank. I’d hate for you to die before Jericho does.”

Gavin disappears around the corner and Connor runs to collapse by Evan’s side. He rolls over in response, flashes a quick, half-hearted smile, “What next? You’re going to go back with your friend?”

He hisses when Connor taps his side, “This looks bad. It probably is bad, right?”

“It’s bad, but if we get you back to the Eden Club – “

“They’ll give me some Advil and claim they did everything they could, and even if I live, then I get to go back to sex work. What a life.”

“But you’ll be alive – “

“Ah, but I’ll survive.”

“I’m not letting you die from internal bleeding in a back alley.”

Evan doesn’t respond right away. He smiles again, squishing the fear in his eyes, and quietly asks, “Is Gavin right? Do you have a chip?”

Connor taps the back of his neck, feels around the skin, and there, right there, there’s a bump on the back of his neck, under his skin.

“It’s not surprising that you never noticed it,” says Evan, and he’s got that soft, weak smile again, “Traci only noticed hers a day ago. We managed to decipher the first few lines that stated where Jericho would be patrolling and when.”

“Decipher?”

Evan nods, “Whole thing’s encrypted. Give me a few moments and I might be able to decode it,” he leans closer, “Figure that if I meet my maker, they might be able to save me.”

Evan’s request clicks, and with it, a sense of calm fills Connor’s body. This is easy. He can do this, he can make his lack of a presence up to Evan, “My gloves can read chips. Do you have a knife? Something sharp?”

Evan looks around, “Not that I can see… You don’t have a weapon?”

Connor shakes his head, then, “I have glass vials.”

Evan nods and Connor slips the last vial out of his glove, then shatters it on the ground. It breaks, forming a jagged edge.

“Connor?” it’s Hank’s voice, and both he and Evan freeze, looking at the radio still on Connor’s shoulder, “Gavin came back, where are you?”

“Almost done,” he lies, and lying is far too easy, “Collecting samples now.”

A pause, then, “Meet back at my house.”

Lying may be easy, but lying to a detective isn’t. Connor can’t dwell on it.

The glass is cool against the back of his neck. He places it as close to the chip as he can, then closes his eyes and sucks in a quick breath.

It’s so sharp and so quick that Connor doesn’t register the pain of the slash. The feeling of shifting the chip is painful and not something he ever wants to experience again, but every second Connor hesitates is a second off Evan’s life.

The chip comes out and Connor shivers, feeling hot blood creep down his neck. He takes the chip and takes off his right glove, then inserts the chip into the palm and hands it to Evan.

The holographic screen pops up and Evan taps at the projection. As he works, Connor puts a hand against his neck. It stings, but the pressure stops the bleeding, so he grits his teeth and bares it.

The information on the chip is senseless gibberish, but Evan somehow sees beyond that. He pulls up images of various cyphers, scanning wheels and charts and scratching out symbols to place new symbols, only to scratch out the new symbols seconds later.

After a moment of wonder and a racing mind, Evan asks, “Chloe Kamski. Does that name mean anything?”

“Alexandrite Lineage,” Connor replies – Chloe’s name is a familiar one, “Personal assistant to Elijah Kamski,” and then, the puzzle comes together, “oversees the majority of lineage production and Designed well-being.”

“Well,” Evan says, shifting to look at Connor, “We just received a personal invite to Kamski’s mountain retreat.”

“Can you make it?”

Evan bites his lip, taps the projection, scribbles on the light, “It’s an hour away. If I hack a cab, I’ll be fine.”

“You can hack a cab?”

Evan shrugs, then winces, then hides his wince, “It’s easy. I can show you?”

Connor squints, makes a face like he’d sucked a lemon, “No.”

Evan laughs, then winces again, “Right,” he takes off the glove, returns it.

Slowly, Evan struggles to his feet. Connor places a hesitant hand to his shoulder, then, when Evan stops cursing under his breath, helps steady him.

They shuffle around the shattered glass, and Connor half-supports, half-drags Evan to the road. They stay hidden in the bushes. Evan doesn’t crouch – they both know that getting back up will be a bigger struggle than they can afford.

Evan uses the console on the side of the closest building to summon a self-driving cab. Connor summons a second one, one that will head to Hank’s house, and then they both wait. The moonlight hides them well and the night is quiet, save for Evan’s raspy breaths.

Soon, the oppressive silence is unbearable, and Evan says, “Do you think Chloe can help?”

“Yes,” says Connor, perhaps a bit too quickly and with far too little evidence to prove his stance, “She’ll help you. You’ll be alright.”

Evan nods, studies his feet. He’s still in his Eden Club outfit – shirtless, and with a shocking lack of fabric on his legs. Connor steps away, slow enough that Evan can regain his balance without leaning on his shoulder, and peels off his jacket.

He’s going right to Hank’s, anyway. Hank will ask why, but he won’t report the infraction.

Evan smiles and accepts the jacket wordlessly, pulling it over his shoulders. They stand in silence for a bit longer, watching unknowing cars rush past.

“Why aren’t you at Jericho, Connor?” Evan asks, and it’s not an unexpected question, but it’s one that Connor still can’t answer, “You could’ve killed Traci and Amber, but you didn’t. You could’ve killed whichever Jericho member was on patrol, but you didn’t. You could’ve let that dude kill me, but you didn’t,” he tugs at Connor’s jacket, “You’re not what they think you are, and it’s only a matter of time before that officers figures it out. And if he’s willing to do this to me, imagine what he’s willing to do to you.”

“I can’t go to Jericho.”

“Why not?”

“I have a report to fill out with Amanda,” Amanda, who Markus somehow knows, and Connor feels like he needs to lie down for a bit.

“Skip it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll kill me.”

Gravel crunches under tires – the cab pulls up, and Evan looks to the sleek white vehicle, planning the best way to stumble into it.

He takes a step forward, then stops, and purposefully bumps into Connor’s side, this action lacking the venom of Gavin’s actions, “Not if they can’t catch you.”

Connor has nothing more to say, and luckily, neither does Evan. Connor helps him to the cab and the door slides wide open in response to the motion, a white light spilling onto the floor.

Evan practically falls in, biting his tongue to avoid crying out, then readjusts himself and inputs the location on the console. The cab chimes a tune, assuring Evan that it’s registered the location, then a small _START DRIVE?_ holographic prompt appears.

He turns back to Connor, winks, and says, “I’ll tell Chloe you said hi if you tell Markus I say hi.”

Evan hits the option labelled _YES._ The door slides closed and the cab pulls away, leaving Connor to retreat to his hidden cave in the bushes.

He _does_ have to speak with Amanda – maybe she’ll have answers, and if she doesn’t, maybe he can visit Chloe. If Chloe will help Evan, she’ll help Connor.

It’s a long wait for the cab, and even longer now that he’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life has been very good at keeping me very busy!! I'm in a musical and my life is rehearsals right now lol! regardless, I'm quite happy with how this chapter turned out (I think Evan would disagree with me...)!
> 
> come join us on the Detroit: New ERA discord! it inspired this fic and is overall a really cool place!
> 
> https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm


	6. We Don't Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe there's truth to the phrase "ignorance is bliss"...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it may be past Halloween, but the scariest thing is my update schedule.
> 
> come join us on discord! https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm

_Pristine._

That’s the only word that comes to mind, the only word that accompanies the thought of Amanda. Everything in her office is pristine – her white leather chair, her white pen, her white orchid, her white calendar. A single red rose on her glass desk. A full-length window framing the city illuminated in the night. It’s unnaturally perfect, just like her chosen profession.

Amanda crosses behind her desk and picks up a white case file. She reads the holographic projection, perfectly still. Connor shifts his weight.

“Amber and Traci,” she says, _finally,_ “They were of complimentary lineages?”

“That’s what our initial investigation stated,” Connor responds, keeping his back straight and his shoulders back, “Two lineages designed in close harmony, so that crossbreeding would result in a child with the same traits as their parents, without the fear of a lack of genetic diversity.”

“It could be said that they were designed to fall in love?”

“That could be stated, yes.”

She looks at the files, studies it like a cat studies a mouse. The harsh white light reflects off the sharp lines of her face. She looks… older. Tired. The stress of the deviancy case, and Connor’s shocking lack of progress, seems to have worn on her.

And for a moment, he almost feels bad. He doesn’t care that she’s naturally born, and he doesn’t care that that makes her superior, nor does he care that, in all eighteen years of his life, she’s never shown any sort of maternal love. He wants to pull her into a hug and tell her that he’ll do better, that he’ll solve this case so she can relax. Maybe he doesn’t need to care about incinerating any bridge between him and Markus. Maybe Amanda can give him the love he’d always wanted, the sense of belonging he never deserved to have.

But as soon as the moment comes, it’s gone, leaving behind a lingering taste of _what if._

“Could you hypothesize,” Connor says, and Amanda flicks her eyes over to him in acknowledgement, “That if they were designed to fall in love…”

“They never deviated,” she finishes, placing the file on the desk, “They simply did what they were designed to do. A lineage designed for love, for high emotions; when do you claim the emotions are too high?”

“But, deviancy does exist,” says Connor, and there’s a weird feeling in his stomach: anger? Fear?

“It does,” and Amanda smiles, “But if deviants merely step over a line and cross into an extreme, perhaps there may be a way to push them back.”

_Oh._ No, no, Amanda and CyberLife can’t work towards that, they can’t – they can’t push free people back to the lives they nearly died to escape. He pictures Daniel and Simon and _Markus_ , emotionless, eyes barren and cold and he can’t stay quiet, _she can’t do this._

“What if that causes irreversible damage to the deviant?”

“It’s better than a deviant,” says Amanda, and she begins to write something down on the desk, smooth blue lines appearing in the glass surface as she traces it with her finger, “Excellent work, Connor. Anything else to report?”

Markus. He’d met Markus, stared into those heterochromatic eyes, felt things he isn’t supposed to feel. And Markus, he’d told him about Amanda. Said that she’d understand Connor’s failure if he brought up Markus.

“No, I have no further reports.”

~*~

After three days of nothing, the deviancy cases’ big break came at four in the morning.

The initial comm stated all the basic information, the same _once upon a time_ of all the cases before it. A deviant, suspected Lily Lineage, was found roaming the streets of Detroit, shadowed by broken streetlights and reflections in shards of glass. It fled when contact was attempted. Jericho involvement is suspected, but the deviant’s trail was lost before the breadcrumbs could lead to their mythical hideout.

Except, this time, the deviant left a trail.

Carelessly, it had been injured in its frantic dash to freedom, leaving a scarlet dotted line right back to where it had originated; through battered and long abandoned backstreets, past rusted construction sites and husks of cars, forgotten after the self-driving variants dominated the market. It led to a bankrupt hotel, one that had gone out of business due to its less-than-ideal location a few years before CyberLife announced its first lineage.

Yet, oddly enough, someone had installed a fingerprint scanner to unlock a backdoor, one that only functioned if the user had no fingerprints, a trait of CyberLife’s tampering.

“ _Get that patchwork bastard over here,_ ” Gavin hissed over the radio, “ _Turns out he may be good for something._ ”

Hank’s car is quiet. He hadn’t even put on any music, and Connor didn’t feel like it was appropriate to do so without authorization. Plus, he didn’t mind the quiet. Made it easier to process Evan and Markus and Markus knowing Amanda and knowing that he could’ve stopped Markus but didn’t and wondering if that made his perfect, untouchable genes deviant and wondering if he’s always been deviant or if –

“Why’d you really go to my house, Connor?” Connor turns to look at Hank, who waves a hand up and down his body, “Thought those CyberLife bastards didn’t make you feel like a real boy, in case that fucks up the mission.”

“I was designed to care for my fellow officers. I am replaceable. They are not.”

“Sure. But that’s on the job. Why go to my house to offer _emotional support_?”

“I was designed to – “

“If you told Amanda what you did, would she be ok with it?”

God, Connor almost laughs at that. _No._ Amanda wouldn’t be simply unhappy, she’d be _furious._ Disobeying orders and disobeying curfew just to check up on a self-destructive old lieutenant with one foot out of this world, she’d be absolutely livid.

“I don’t believe Amanda needs to know.”

Hank raises an eyebrow at that and reaches forward, tapping Connor’s Patch with his finger, pushing with enough force to rock Connor back, “Doesn’t she already know?”

_No._ Amanda won’t know. His lineage was designed _specifically_ to make remote memory access and transfer easy, but there’s a few memories that Connor selfishly wants to keep hidden away. Memories that die with his body.

_Evan’s new family is… weird. Maybe that’s rude, but it’s true._

_The small… dorm, containment facility, whatever socially acceptable name the police are calling it now… is illuminated by the light of a screen. Connor’s wearing headphones and he’s placed his jacket at the bottom of the door to block out any stray rays of light. His channel is secure, no possible way it can be tampered, but he still only wants to spend a few minutes at most on this conversation._

_“Listen, the dude,” and Evan pauses, thinks about his words, “I guess you don’t really refer to Elijah as a dude. Whatever. He’ll ensure that you’ll be getting the package in half a day, one day max. Once it arrives, just slip it back to your solitary confinement cell – sorry, Designed-specific room – and attach it to your Patch. It’ll become unnoticeable.”_

_“And this device, it’ll prevent my memories from transferring?”_

_“You got it. It’ll give you two whole days to edit out whatever you don’t want Amanda seeing.”_

_“Does it work on past memories?”_

_“Does Kamski strike you as an amateur? You can edit out whatever that rose-obsessed weirdo hasn’t already seen.”_

“And the pursuit. Back at the Eden Club. That’s not connected?”

“Connected to what?”

Hank looks forward, “To how you’re acting. I didn’t see any samples.”

In a quiet, distant voice, he says, “The samples were lost. My apologies.”

And, once again, Hank’s car is quiet.

~*~

The hotel is the exact visual definition of abandoned. Rich green vines crawl up the brick walls and drip into an empty swimming pool. Graffiti is sprawled along the exterior walls – Connor ensures that his steps are high, so he can avoid getting shards of broken beer bottles in his feet.

“This hotel has the scanner that our patrol found,” says the officer that leads him and Hank further back into the jungle, “It’s not that new and the condition isn’t great. We’re suspecting it was salvaged.”

“You think they had to fix it?” asks Hank, and the officer nods, “So they have technical know-how. Suspect ex-CyberLife?”

“It’s possible, but nothing is certain.”

“It’s unlikely that this is Jericho’s hideout,” says Hank, tilting his head up to look at the massive building, “Or why would the deviant run away?”

The officer thinks, worrying their lip, then says, “Maybe Jericho’s not what we thought. Behind closed doors, Markus might not be the leader we think he is. The deviant could’ve disagreed – “

And before Connor can stop himself, the emotion in his chest comes bubbling up, surfacing as, “Markus wouldn’t have done that,” in response to the surprised looks, he adds, “It’s contrary to how we profiled him.”

The officer shrugs, “Maybe the profile’s wrong. You can never know a deviant.”

With that, they turn and leave, “Call us if you need backup.”

Once they’re gone, Hank jerks his head towards the panel. Taking the hint, Connor steps towards it.

It looks like it forgot how to be a CyberLife creation. It lies behind a few vines, near a steel door, with the classic ivory shine hidden behind years of caked on dirt. The side is cracked, but overall, it looks functional. The main panel glows blue, and it seems to fizz with electricity, growing in intensity as Connor’s hand gets closer.

Once he touches the panel, the buzzing halts. There’s clicking, whirring as the machine thinks, debating Connor’s status. After far too long, this stops too.

The door pops open.

“Get behind me,” says Hank, and Connor nods.

The door looks heavy, and Hank grunts with effort to open it. Eventually, it opens just wide enough to fit both Hank and Connor, and a rush of stale, musty air brushes against their skin. Connor coughs, scrunching his nose, but Hank seems oblivious, trudging on into the dark.

A narrow flashlight beam is insufficient. It illuminates a rusted, fallen chandelier, a piano with keys lying on the floor, and a broken, half-rotted banister, but never all three at once. To Connor, however, everything seems –

Hank shines the flashlight at him, and Connor lurches back with the sudden brightness.

“How’s your night vision?” he asks, smiling slightly, “Your eyes reflect light.”

“It was better,” Connor responds, blinking away the spots in his vision, “before you did that.”

“Great! Lead the way.”

“I can’t see anymore. Did you consider that?”

With his hindered night vision, Connor can see Hank scowl, and he laughs.

They walk forward, Hank trailing, to an open doorway, stepping over a broken door. The dust had been interrupted by footprints pointing towards the exit, so now they tiptoe around the trail. There’s the occasional drop of blood, coated in a layer of dust and dirt. Connor doesn’t point it out, nor does he attempt to collect the sample.

Once they reach a space Connor assumes was a recreational room, Hank says, “Your eyes glow, like a cat. CyberLife can do that?”

“I have the gene responsible for the growth of a tapetum lucidum, the optical tissue found in cats and other animals.”

“You have cat DNA in your eyes?”

“In all of my cells.”

“You’re a cat.”

“Technically, no.”

With a slight tint of amusement, Hank says, “You know what they called people like that in _my_ generation?”

“Do _not_.”

Hank laughs, coughing when he inhales the dust floating in the air, which causes Connor to laugh.

Once they calm down, they turn their attention back to the scene. It’s dark and dusty, just like everywhere else in this hotel, with no sign of any other people, Designed or not. Hank finds a door on the left, and Connor turns to look at the broken, moldy pool table in the centre of the room.

It smells _awful_. All the balls are cracked and scuffed, and there’s a dark stain in one corner of the table that Connor doesn’t really want to touch. Dust cakes the surface – this hasn’t been touched in a long time.

Behind him, metal collapses to the floor and Hank yells. Quickly, Connor turns, seeing that the door Hank went to investigate was actually a closet – and on the floor lies an uncountable number of first aid kits. Hank opens one – most of the gauze is missing, and all of the antiseptic. The painkillers hadn’t been touched.

Hank stands and Connor walks to the only other door. This one had been touched – with closer inspection, it’s obvious that the wood had been stained by blood.

Connor goes to place his hand on the doorknob, and Hank shoots out his arm. He places his ear to the door, and Connor copies.

There’s distant shouts. Music, people, the life that had been so painfully absent. People who could’ve gotten a scanner. People who would’ve used it.

With all the noise, Connor doesn’t worry about being quiet. He pushes open the door, revealing an empty hallway. The carpet is moldy – Connor worries about breathing in too many times. It squishes under his feet.

Every step makes the thunderous sounds of something living grow even louder. By the time they reach the second door, the light at the end of the tunnel, the noise is so loud that it reverberates through Connor’s entire body, rattling his bones and beating in time with his heart.

“Take off your jacket,” says Hank before Connor can grab the doorknob.

He does just that, inverting the jacket to hide the CyberLife symbols. His Patch stays hidden behind his shirt. For some strange reason, he feels like that’s the safest option.

When Connor pulls open the door, a wave of sound hits him, nearly knocking him back. There’s _so many people._ They stand around a drained pool, chanting and screaming and punching the air wildly. The mass of people is so thick that Connor can’t see what they’re yelling at.

He moves to find out. There’s such an odd, underlying sound, like the sound of something soft hitting something hard, or maybe the other way around.

Before he can shoulder past the first person, Hank grabs his wrist and pulls him back, “You don’t want to.”

“It’s imperative for my mission,” Connor whispers, yanking his arm back, “I have to know.”

“No, Connor, you don’t,” says Hank, but his voice is drown out by the growing distance between them.

Connor shoves past the sea of sweaty, screaming bodies, so preoccupied with whatever they’re doing that they don’t even notice him. The tiles are slick with moisture – Connor doesn’t think too hard about what it could be. He’s near the shallow end of the pool. As he gets closer, he can see the metal bar that had been placed to allow patrons to get in and out of the pool easily peeking out of the crowd, shiny and…

Shiny and red.

He breaks past the last person. There, in the deep end. One is from the Pisces Lineage ~~and it isn’t Simon, no matter how much it looks like him~~ , the other from the Stardust Lineage. That strange sound was the sound of bare fists against skin, of blood spattering against the smooth walls of the pool.

With every hit, the crowd bursts into an uproar loud enough to hide how the member of the Stardust Lineage flinches and apologizes. _She’s a deviant._

Connor doesn’t think he can stand. He turns and runs back through the crowd, thankful for their complete absence of humanity and inability to notice and care for the suffering of others.


End file.
